I gave myself permission to slow down—
not because the world paused for me,
but because I was tired of bleeding for clocks
that never bled back.
They told me “keep pushing,”
like ambition should come
before air.
Like burnout was a badge
instead of a breakdown.
But I was crumbling
behind a smile
and a calendar full of “yes.”
No one saw me unmake the bed
just to crawl back in.
I used to feel guilty
for taking naps,
for saying no,
for missing the text and letting the call ring.
Now?
That silence feels like healing.
I stopped trying to outrun my worth.
Stopped thinking rest was weakness.
I let the laundry pile and chose peace instead.
And guess what?
The world didn’t end.
My softness didn’t ruin the plan.
It saved me.
This isn’t laziness—
it’s survival in a world
that doesn’t clap for women
unless we’re breaking.
So I gave myself permission to slow down.
To eat slower.
To cry longer.
To show up softer and still be enough.
You don’t owe hustle your whole soul.
You don’t need burnout to prove you’re trying.
Sometimes the bravest thing you can do
is put down the damn to-do list
and choose yourself.
Not tomorrow.
Not when it’s convenient.
Now.
